Unfinished Business
by Thirteen Ravens
Summary: Post OOtP. Dumbledore's wants Occlumency to resume but he's only told Harry! This short fic sees a nervous Harry step into an unwitting Snape's office. More of a three chapter ficlet.
1. Blood from Stone

A/N: Disclaimer - I do not own any of these characters, am making no dosh out of it, and am writing purely for my own and other's amusement ;-)  
  
__________________________________________________  
  
'Come in.'  
  
As Harry clicked the latch and entered the gloomy office he really hoped Dumbledore wasn't making a mistake. If it hadn't been for all the Headmaster's prompts, he wouldn't have dreamed of doing this anyway.  
  
But if it was the only way forward?  
  
He pushed the heavy door shut and cast his eyes nervously around him. The dungeon office with its curved stone ceiling and flagstone floor was weakly lit and chilly. The only respite from the gloomy grey decor was the rather macabre collection of various brightly coloured liquids and things in jars, ranged around the walls.  
  
In short, the place was just as he remembered it over four months ago - unwelcoming and creepy.  
  
Harry dragged his eyes away from the dusty containers. Because there, on the other side of the room sat the equally unwelcoming and creepy owner of the office. Professor Snape. The man was bent over his desk, frowning slightly at a piece of unrolled parchment in front of him.  
  
Harry watched as Snape turned to scrutinize an open book to his left, before returning back to the parchment and picking up a quill to scrawl a few words, his dark eyes glinting in the torchlight.  
  
The teenager continued to stand there bemused, presuming the professor was just finishing off marking a piece of homework. Even so - it was strange to watch the man when he wasn't busy glaring his daggers of hate at 'Potter.'  
  
Snape looked almost, dare he say it? Relaxed?  
  
********  
  
*  
  
*  
  
Mostly I like to think I feel nothing. I like to think this is a strength at these times.  
  
I went on for years in an unemotional torpor, cold blooded as any reptile, emblem of my house. Losing myself in brewing potion requests late into the night, drugging myself into a stupor to mute any dreams, lessening the chance of any disrupting my sleep. One pile of marking mattered as little as the next. As long as they gave me my distance, my space, my time for silence after the last bell, I could go on in this way and never be reminded to look behind.  
  
The staff respect my need for silence. They call the dungeons mine – but it is only because no one else cares to teach in them. Down here, there is no way of telling whether it is day or night. Intimidation ensures long hours of uninterrupted, muffled solitude.  
  
Things can be buried as long as there is no visual reminder of it. Things can be left nameless and rotting in the shadows. Disregarded. Cankering.  
  
But only a fool would be stupid enough to forget that nothing – nothing - ever really goes away. Even the seemingly forgotten are only sleeping, like rotting corpses waiting to be dislodged by an unusually high tide.  
  
I had the fortune to mislay such a memory for eleven years. It slept, unprovoked, for over a decade. But now it's September once again, and five years almost to the day. Such as is, this thing came to the surface and by some sort of perverse miracle it repeatedly refuses to sink back down.  
  
And still people choose to willingly sacrifice themselves to the waves of his ignorance, while he rides cork-like atop them.  
  
Now he remains forever within my thoughts, the least thanks to the chain of insufferable incidents last year. The headmaster has no idea what it is to store hour upon hour of unpleasant childhood memories in your mind, accumulating like a noisome scum on a stagnant backwater.  
  
To become the Boy-Who-Lived by vanquishing the Dark Lord, only to become the Boy-Who- Miraculously-Survived-Long Enough-to-Resurrect him. A heroic villain.  
  
A privileged present, but a loser's past.  
  
Perverse indeed.  
  
There are still a few weeks of Summer weather left, so Flitwick tells me. Confining oneself underground for days at a time makes judge of seasons tricky. I used to be able to tell the time of year by the availability of certain potion ingredients, but improvements in cultivation have put a stop to these fluctuations.  
  
Though there is one thing I am constantly aware of and wish I could forget – the school year. And tomorrow is the start of yet another.  
  
Third year Gryffindor/Slytherin first session. I am trying to set the pack of hot-headed brats a particularly demanding task. Even though the idea that a challenge will keep them quiet, is an impossibly vain hope.  
  
I stand up and pace for a short time. As my eyes skim the shelves I notice that something is casting a dark shadow behind one of my larger antique petrified specimen jars.  
  
I snake my fingers past the jars and pull the object out. It is a thin black book, its cover slightly battered, the gilt lettering down the spine almost rubbed away. It was probably pushed down the back by one of the larger journals.  
  
I wipe the dust off the cover and feel a tingle of familiarity brush my spine. This book is mine. Was mine, in my youth. I stare at it, unblinking as memories coil in the shadows, wary of coming forth.  
  
I seat myself at my desk once again. The lesson plan stares blandly up at me – I snap the parchment shut in one movement, it can wait until later.  
  
Laying the book flat upon the table I stare at it long and hard before I finally decide what to do. I slide a finger cautiously under the cover. The binding creaks as I open it. Inside the paper is yellowed and faded, and smells musty.  
  
I read the words as I used to, slowly, and with deliberation.  
  
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images...  
  
I pull a fresh scrap of parchment from a drawer as I read. At first I can't seem to recollect any of the words. And then, all at once, a few lines arrest my attention.  
  
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.  
  
In one moment something long buried comes to light. I welcome the feeling, for I remember why I used to like these words. I have to confess that I like them still. Some pages crack loudly as I turn them, some pages make no protest as they are already loose. I only pause to make brief notes.  
  
'What it that noise?' The wind under the door.  
  
There is a low rapping sound. It takes me several seconds to realise that it is someone knocking on my office door. I curse under my breath before asking them to enter. I am distantly aware of them standing there quietly, and am vaguely impressed. I'm sure they will wait until I have finished the second part.  
  
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember 'Nothing?'  
  
Are you alive, or not?  
  
I pause. Damn this Muggle poet; whoever he was, he understood what it was to live through dark times. The only Muggle poet I have read, and the only one I believe I ever will.  
  
I read on. There are many Muggle references that I am still ignorant of - I prefer it this way.  
  
When Lil's husband got demobbed. Demobbed? My curiosity begins to irritate me. I write it down. Perhaps I will look it up some –  
  
Merlin – the eyes!  
  
I hastily snap the parchment shut, feeling a wholly unpleasant chill shoot up my spine. It takes a fair effort to keep the hand that is holding the quill from quivering.  
  
The brat of the boy is in my room! He is in my room and he has been watching me all this while!  
  
"You...dare to step back in to my office, Potter?" I hiss, feeling initial shock being rapidly replaced by anger. 'Getting stupider by the year, perhaps?"  
  
Potter shivers slightly, his gaze wandering about the room. He still wears his hair James Potter style, but his body looks noticeably thinner than last year. It may just be the candlelight, but his face appears gaunt, and his eyes also seem much more intense than usual. Maybe he has just grown, but I never recall his father being this thin.  
  
"I - but Dumbledore-"  
  
'Dumbledore knows exactly my feelings on the matter!' I snap, standing up to ball my hands into fists on the desk. "And I want you out-"  
  
Potter flinches slightly. "He - I would like to resume-"  
  
"Silence!"  
  
'-Occlumency. Professor Sir,' he adds hastily.  
  
Is he mocking me? I take a deep breath and grind my teeth. I feel the unpleasant memories being dredged up once again. Not just my memories – but his memories also. They always seem to accompany mine now, and occasionally infuse with my own in a most disturbing manner like they did last year. Now sometimes I honestly believe a dog did chase me up a tree. Maybe one did.  
  
So the damage has been done. I hope Dumbledore is satisfied.  
  
I stare at the boy. Though his eyes seem glassy, they still glare at me with a deep silent malice. I match it unflinchingly with one of my own.  
  
Did I really teach him this?  
  
I believe not.  
  
Ironic that the person who Potter hates the most likely understands him more than his dear Godfather ever did.  
  
But then again, Black never knew like I do that his Godson was meant for Slytherin, never knew he was capable of casting Unforgivables.  
  
Potter is not the only one who has been thinking a lot over the Summer.  
  
"Maybe I can resume the lessons."  
  
Potter's shocked look inevitably causes me some amusement. I try to halt the smirk rapidly creeping across my face. I have the upper hand here, and am not going to delay in using it.  
  
'After all, with you turned sixteen, aren't we both responsible adults now?'  
  
He hadn't expected that. The boy opens his mouth repeatedly like a goldfish, but unsurprisingly nothing intelligible comes out. As I move to the old lesson position and draw out my wand I can't help noting that the boy's movements remind me of a nervous House Elf's. Obviously he still hasn't practiced clearing his mind, or he wouldn't look so damned worried.  
  
'One two three -'  
  
I smirk as I watch his knuckles go white from gripping his wand. 


	2. Turning the tables back

As Harry took his old position in front of the desk, he noted that he was now almost equal to his professor in height. Only after he had noticed this did he realise that the Pensieve was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Not on the shelf. Not on the desk. Nowhere near.  
  
So Snape still had all his memories in his head?  
  
But too late to wonder about it - the wands were up.  
  
Harry braced himself for Snape's cry of 'Legilimens!' But instead.  
  
'Petrificus totalus!'  
  
It was too fast to block. The teenager's eyes goggled as he fell over backwards and hit the floor with a whump. Panicking, Harry darted his eyeballs toward the desk, where he saw Snape looming, smirking down at him.  
  
'So shocking, isn't it, when people do things you don't expect them to?' came the cool remark. 'Now, let me see.' Snape narrowed his eyes and pointed his wand back at the immobile teen. The smirk widened.  
  
'Extracto Memorius!'  
  
Harry shut his eyes. There was a horrible lurch, and then a feeling as if his head was being ransacked. Bits of memories were flying everywhere, as if Snape was searching for something.  
  
And then suddenly it stopped. His heart thumping wildly, Harry opened his eyes. Beyond all the haze of memories he could see Snape looking triumphant, his wand held up like a fishing rod.  
  
As Snape raised his wand still higher, Harry felt himself run cold as a familiar memory came vividly into view.  
  
It was Snape's Pensieve memory.  
  
Harry thought then with the greatest sense of irony how useful Occlumency would have been at that moment - if only he'd bothered to master it over the summer.  
  
'Very funny, Snape,' he thought angrily, hoping that the professor could somehow feel how annoyed he was right then. 'Thought you'd give me a taste of my father's torturing, eh? Never bothered to notice the glaring differences, have you, you prejudiced old git?'  
  
Harry's anger increased as the memory began to be forcibly extracted from his head in a backwards order. The voices garbled as they went backwards too.  
  
And then, Harry saw a bright light and looked up. It was a silver strand, emerging from his forehead. He watched agog as it began to travel in a steady line, straight toward Snape's wand. In his mind's eye Harry saw the teenage Snape once again hanging upside down.  
  
'Fine! Have that!' thought Harry, lividly. 'It tortured me anyway!'  
  
Snape on the floor - the gash closing up on his father's face, the curse travelling back to young Snape's wand - Snape on the floor spitting soapsuds.  
  
His mother.  
  
The silver strand reached the end of the professor's wand. Very carefully, Snape moved his head so it was directly under his wand. Slowly, he began to comb the strand towards him.  
  
The memory began to disappear into Snape's head. Harry could only watch on as his mother walked backwards, to sit down amongst the group of girls again, and then panicked as he realised he couldn't remember what mum had done before that.  
  
'No! You can't take her!' Harry wanted to bellow out loud. But he still couldn't move.  
  
"Impedimenta! Stupefy! Expelliarmus!!"  
  
In vain he tried to get a curse out at Snape, but not only was he unable to speak, his wand wasn't even pointing in the right direction! An unbearable, horrible feeling of grief overcame him. He must keep that memory - he desperately needed it!  
  
For Sirius, as well as his mother.  
  
Suddenly his inner turmoil was interrupted by a painful twinge from his scar. "Not now!" thought Harry savagely. He had to try and break the spell, the memory of his mother was fast disappearing from his mind.  
  
Yet the more upset he got about the memory, the more the scar burned, until Harry could feel his eyes almost burning with the tears. He felt sick, he felt dizzy, and his brain felt like an exploded filing cabinet.  
  
Harry looked up at Snape, and as he did so he felt once again that horrible surge of hatred, which made him feel as if he had fangs and burning red eyes.  
  
Voldemort was looking into the room. And he was absolutely livid. Spitting mad.  
  
Harry wasn't sure how he knew it, but somehow he was aware of another, completely different sensation. And something told him that Voldemort felt ill, as well as angry, and it was his own emotional outburst that had caused it.  
  
Voldemort ill?  
  
The power of Voldemort's poisonous temper seemed to interfere with the spell, and somehow, Harry suddenly and shockingly found himself screaming at the top of his voice.  
  
'PROTEGO!!'  
  
In one moment his scar stopped burning, and the spell was reversed.  
  
Both Harry and Snape bared their teeth as the force of the rebound sent them dizzy. But Harry was more prepared, and sprang up jabbing his wand into the strand.  
  
The teenager watched as an expression of mingled disbelief and horror fixed itself upon his professor's face.  
  
'No!' shrieked Snape, as Harry pulled the memory back the other way.  
  
Harry's father was calling after his mother - young Snape was getting up.  
  
'No,' hissed the Professor, paling rapidly beyond the colour of chalk dust.  
  
'Who wants me to take off Snivelly's pants?' roared James to the gathered crowd.  
  
But Harry noticed the strand didn't stop there. Oh no - it kept on going. He watched the silver strand still moving toward him, unsure if he really wanted to see any more of it. But what would happen if he stopped the spell?  
  
'NO!' shrieked out young Snape, his robes flying out as he writhed, making him look like some bizarre angry bat. 'No! '  
  
'No - no?' grinned Sirius mockingly. 'Who's here for you? Evans has gone now, and I don't see anyone else around who wants a piece of your filthy mouth!'  
  
James smirked. "What Sniv - don't you like a taste of your gang's favourite trick? Thought you were so cool - going around with Malfoy and co? Shame they've all left now - isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," shot out a voice in the crowd. "I heard they only let him hang about 'cus' they felt sorry for him!"  
  
Sirius gave a bark-like 'Hah!'  
  
And on this the crowd seemed decided. A murmur of 'pants - pants - pants!' began to sound from a few groups.  
  
Harry saw young Lupin's nose move even closer into his book, while Wormtail was creeping closer to the action, rubbing his hands in furtive glee.  
  
'Pants - pants - pants!'  
  
Fifteen-year-old Snape was becoming more and more unnerved, especially now the crowd had began to chant. Harry could also see past the memory, to watch adult Snape leaning on the desk. Both Snape's had exactly the same look in their eyes - one of mounting unease.  
  
'Aw look, Snivelly's crying!' jeered out a boy in the crowd.  
  
'Again?' sniggered another. "Merlin save us!"  
  
'No I'm fucking NOT!' spat the boy. But he was shielding his face with one arm, so it was hard to tell.  
  
Snape crying? Now that really unsettled Harry.  
  
'I didn't mean Mudblood!' came the muffled whine. 'So let me down!'  
  
'And we all believe you Sniv,' sneered James sarcastically. 'You two faced, whiny little shit.'  
  
'Yeah,' Sirius rallied. 'Last week you were too busy laughing over that sick little charm you pulled on Prongs!'  
  
Harry was sure he heard several muffled sniggers go through some parts of the crowd.  
  
'You deserved that, Potter!' spat the scruffy boy spitefully. His eyes glistened oddly. 'Let me speak to Evans!'  
  
James glowered. 'Not a chance. You're not going near her again. Ever. And I can use my status as Head Boy to see to that!' he growled savagely. With lines of fresh blood still streaking down from the gash on his face and soaking into his collar, Potter looked particularly vicious.  
  
Harry shuddered. How could this frightening boy grow up to be his father?  
  
'Bastards!' hissed back Snape. Harry gazed at him wide eyed. With his screwed up expression Harry could tell the boy was definitely close to cracking. He had seen it far too often with Dudley's victims.  
  
'Ooh - ooh, did you hear that Padfoot?' remarked James, twirling his wand lazily in his fingers.  
  
'I did indeed Prongs,' was Black's cool reply. 'Shall we take the points, or the pants?"  
  
"H'm, tough choice my friend, but I think this is the people's vote, and the people seem to really want the latter," replied James coolly. "So - how close do you feel to your pants, Snape?' he leered. 'So close you can't ever bear to take 'em off for the wash?'  
  
"Fuck you Potter," screamed Snape. "I didn't mean what I said to Evans, so you can go stick that fucking wand up your fucking tight little Gryffindor arse!"  
  
There were some intakes of breath from the crowd, and a few guffaws. Wormtail began to giggle, but soon stopped when James shot a glare at him.  
  
Harry saw his father had gone completely red with anger, but he noticed it was Sirius who took most offence at the Slytherin's insult. In fact, he had never seen anyone look so insane.  
  
"Would you like to find out just how much I HATE Slytherins?" hissed the boy dangerously, creeping toward the helpless teen. "Because if you do I'm more than happy to demonstrate all I know -"  
  
All the anger, and defiance Snape had been displaying suddenly seemed to drain away, leaving a look of horror on his scrawny, sharp little face.  
  
Lupin shut his eyes. ('Had Lupin seen this before?' Harry couldn't help wondering.)  
  
'Do it then, bloody do it, but do you really think I'd give a SHIT?' Snape spluttered in desperation as Potter began to edge closer too. 'And you can't stop me from speaking to anyone!'  
  
'Oh can't we?' came Sirius' low growl. "Where there's a wand - there's always a way. To go by Slytherin's motto, that is."  
  
"And I didn't say anyone Snape," whispered Potter. "I said EVANS. Now, that would mean more to you than just anyone, wouldn't it?"  
  
'But, you c-can't do that.' The Slytherin stuttered, twisting and writhing around as he saw Potter raise his wand.  
  
In the dungeon Harry was aware that his professor was making a last desperate fight against the spell, teeth gritted. For a moment the memory seemed to slow down, even stutter.  
  
But despite this, Harry saw the Head Boy continue to smile nastily, quirking an eyebrow.  
  
"Can."  
  
The lank haired teen's black eyes glittered in a defiance, which he must have known was futile. "No - you can't, Potter!"  
  
"Dis-"  
  
"NO!!"  
  
A shadow seemed to pass over the scene before it merged into something else. In a matter of a few seconds Harry saw a mass of black shapes, smelt candles, and caught a glimpse of a room that seemed familiar. Then utter darkness.  
  
The sound of things clattering and breaking suddenly exploded in the air all around Harry, interspersed by freakish howls which almost made him jump out of his very skin -  
  
"You miserable – miserable...!! Why is it? Why is it her?! Why does it have to be her!!?"  
  
This lament was cut off abruptly by a series of curses, and then a final awful shriek -  
  
"WHY!?!"  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
Harry quivered as this lament died away to silence, leaving him to his thoughts once again.  
  
The spell had seemingly ended – but the howled words were still ringing in his ears. 


	3. Threat or Submit

Harry opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. He could feel the hard floor of the dungeon was back underneath him, as the chill of cold stones was beginning to seep through his clothes. He was back inside Snape's office. Yes it was dark, but never this dark!  
  
And then he comprehended what had happened - he had fallen into a heap on the floor and his robes were covering his head.  
  
He sat up slowly and looked around, his head splitting with something close to a migraine. Perhaps he hit his head when he fell? He couldn't remember.  
  
And Snape? Oh Merlin, Snape would kill him! Harry felt terror clutch at his insides. He was dead for sure - unless he could get out now.  
  
He got up, weak and drained from the magic, glancing around wildly for any signs of his professor. The teenager was muddled, he didn't know what he should feel now. Pity? Anger? Hate? Fear? They all seemed not quite right. None seemed to make sense any more.  
  
'But I do know one thing,' thought Harry as his eyes watched two bloodshot eyeballs revolve slowly round to stare at him from inside their glass jar.  
  
Snape would sure as hell want revenge.  
  
He shuddered involuntarily. Maybe he'd end up pickled in one of those jars too?  
  
***********  
  
Making as little noise as he could, Harry backed up toward the door, keeping his eyes on the shadows for any sign of movement. The candles in the sconces flickered, their small points of light reflecting in some of the less dusty glass jars.  
  
Silence.  
  
In his horror, the sixteen-year-old's throat went completely dry, yet he didn't even want to risk the noise of swallowing. His heart was thumping loud enough as it was. It was eerie how the Potions Master seemed to have completely disappeared.  
  
Holding his breath, Harry placed his finger and thumb on the door latch and began to raise it upwards as silently as he could. Just when it was high enough -  
  
Thud!  
  
A door banged somewhere in the castle above, causing Harry to flinch and almost loose his grip on the latch.  
  
But he didn't, and Harry let out some of his breath in relief. Now all he had to do was pull it open. Slowly and noiselessly, he soon had a gap six inches wide -  
  
"Close the door, Potter."  
  
Harry's blood could have stopped in his veins at the sound of that voice. He could run like last time - the door was half open - he could make it -  
  
But he was on the verge of something very important here. Another little secret everyone was trying to keep from him perhaps. From "Precious Potter's delicate ears?"  
  
"I said - close the door," repeated the voice dangerously.  
  
Harry obeyed at once. Dropping his hands to his sides in resignation he went to turn around.  
  
"Stop!" snapped Snape. "Did I say you could turn around?!"  
  
"Er - no, Sir," stammered Harry, unnerved. Would Snape make him face the wall for hours like one of his primary school teachers used to?  
  
"Keep your eyes on the door," came the snarled order. Harry heard chair legs scrape across the stone floor. There was a slight pause before Snape spoke again. This time his words were laced with the more familiar sarcasm.  
  
"Now - why didn't you let me have that memory? Hilarious enough to treasure, is it?"  
  
"No it isn't, Sir," replied Harry tiredly. What the hell was Snape's problem? Six months he'd carried the memory about with him, six months since Snape had thrown him onto the Dungeon floor in rage, leaving bruises which were so sore they had stopped him from lying on his arm for well over a week. Six months - and had the man ever seen him laugh? No!  
  
Snape's voice was low, and dangerously soft. "Then - let me have it back."  
  
"No."  
  
"Potter," came the deadly hiss. Even though he couldn't see him, Harry could picture exactly what unpleasant facial expression would likely be aimed at the back of his head. "That is my past, and you have no right - no business with it -"  
  
"I know!" replied Harry hotly, painfully, as he felt some of his anger give way to the guilt. Guilt? Why should he feel guilt - Snape had just raided in return without permission!  
  
But even as he thought that, he knew in some ridiculous way he felt guilty for the Marauders.  
  
Snape made a disparaging noise in his throat. "Potter, if I find the Headmaster has requested this, then obviously he will be seriously displeased - "  
  
"The Headmaster!" sneered Harry vehemently curling his fist into a ball. "Do you listen to the Headmaster? I don't think you bloody well do! And I don't care what he thinks anymore! He's -"  
  
Harry stalled, just catching himself before he launched into a rant. That wouldn't do - he had done so well to keep his temper down the past few weeks - it was just Snape being his bloody wind-up merchant self as usual.  
  
"Careful Potter," came the soft tone. "I don't think your Head of House would approve if you earned her house a minus score before the beginning of term –  
  
The teen took what was supposed to be a calming breath, but it didn't really work, resulting in his next remark coming out much more rudely than he wanted. "Whatever! I think you should be far more worried about how pissed off Voldemort just was!"  
  
Oops. Harry tensed, ready to duck or dodge anything that might be slung at him. But nothing came. Snape was completely silent. After twenty seconds, Harry was even tempted to turn around, to check if the man was still there. But then another question came -  
  
"How did you reverse my spell, Potter?" enquired the suspicious tone.  
  
Harry swallowed yet didn't reply. He really didn't want to reveal to his critical professor that Voldemort had managed to manipulate him - yet again.  
  
Snape repeated the question in a more tense tone, and finally in the deadliest of snarls, before Harry grated his teeth and finally gave in.  
  
"I wanted to keep it," he began uneasily, "but not why you think I would. Not for that - horrible scene. That's sick. But it's all I really have of my mum that's better than pictures. Harry scowled. "So - I got upset, and Voldemort - he - he - sort of - knew - that – er – Sir." Harry could almost sense Snape's eyes narrowing as he stuttered out his explanation. But at least he'd allowed him to speak this time.  
  
"How very ironic," came the almost gleeful reply. "Perhaps if you had thought to let me have what was mine in the first place, you wouldn't have angered the Dark Lord."  
  
"No, you've got the complete wrong idea," replied Harry slowly, staring intensely at the door latch. "I didn't anger him. Not at first anyway – I know. I only made him feel ill." He began to turn to look at his professor warily. "You made him angry. In fact," he muttered, looking the man in the eye. "I could feel his look of hate was meant for you."  
  
Pale as he naturally was, Snape clenched his teeth and turned several shades paler.  
  
Harry threw his gaze downwards onto the flagstones and felt a chill run up his back. Half of him had been reluctant to say what he did, because it went against his theory that Snape was working for Voldemort. Without this, his whole reasoning for why his Godfather died wouldn't work. He had found it easy to blame Snape until this bit of "evidence" had come along.  
  
But there it was, he had sensed hate - the same sort of hate as he felt Voldemort channel with Dumbledore last year.  
  
And how could Voldemort hate Snape if the man was on his side? Unless of course it was another bit of trickery - ?  
  
There was a projected silence. Harry was wondering if Snape was thinking along the same line he was, or whether he was just plotting his usual revenge, when a stab of alarm brought him back to the words he had heard as the pensieve memory had ended.  
  
Had that howling voice been Snapes? It had to have been - even though it didn't seem directly connected to the memory. And it couldn't have been present day Snape either. Obviously, for he had heard things smashing - and there was nothing on the floor of the office.  
  
Harry bit his lip nervously. Those few uttered words, whenever or wherever in time they belonged did not suit Snape one bit. Snape as he knew him could never sound like that. He snarled, sneered, whispered, leered and smirked.  
  
Harry raised his eyes in curiosity. Snape was sat back at his desk, eyes glittering, back straight, all trace of "weak" emotion completely buried. Harry decided there and then (If for his own sanity, or not) that some other person had to have uttered those words. For it certainly wasn't this Severus Snape.  
  
"Now - about Occlumency," began the professor coolly.  
  
"No way - I won't, I refuse - to - not with you," replied Harry nervously, once he had got over the surprise at the sudden change of subject. "Not even if Dumbledore forces me to - I -"  
  
Harry cut himself off, as Snape was on his feet and leaning menacingly over his desk.  
  
"But what if - I - force you to, Potter?" whispered the Potions Master dangerously, an eerie gleam in his eye.  
  
Harry swallowed. "W-What? No -"  
  
"Be quiet!" snarled Snape, his face colouring. Striding quickly around his desk, he swooped down upon the protesting teenager, to hiss a threat through clenched teeth.  
  
"You will call me Sir, or it will be detention - you will show me respect, or it will be detention - and this year, I will be ensuring - every - single detention you get will be an extra Occlumency lesson!  
  
Now - is that fair?"  
  
Harry cringed noticeably as the enraged professor's mad black eyes came within a foot of his face.  
  
"IS THAT FAIR, POTTER?!" bellowed Snape, spit flying.  
  
"Y-Yes sir."  
  
"Good," replied Snape curtly, a ghost of a smile seeming to flit across his face. "Tomorrow, in my office, eight o'clock. Use that Invisibility Cloak and don't let ANYBODY see or hear you."  
  
Harry swallowed; his dry throat was back. "Yes - Sir."  
  
Snape gave him a dismissive glare before whirling around and stalking back to his desk. "Now, get out of my sight."  
  
Harry was sure he had never opened a door latch so quickly. As he jogged up the corridor he tried in vain to comprehend what he had just said "yes - sir" to.  
  
Biting back a curse, and the temptation to punch the nearest wall, or painting, or whatever seemed remotely deserving of it, Harry stormed back up to Gryffindor Tower with barely a sideways glance at other people.  
  
Yes, Dumbledore had got his way again. But what in Merlin's was going on? 


End file.
